Breaking and Entering
by Doktor Girlfriend
Summary: Ten years after that disastrous fight with his brother, Stanford's comfortable life of monster hunts and super science is interrupted by a home invasion.


Title: Breaking and Entering  
Author: Doktor Girlfriend  
Cast/Pairings: Stanford Pines, Fiddleford McGucket, Stanley Pines  
Rating: PG-13  
Contents/Warnings: Mystery Trio AU (personalized and altered to be more post-AToTS canon compliant). Some assuming and fiddling with the timeline (it's presently the late spring/early summer of 1979). Assumes Shermy is an as yet unseen middle sibling and not the baby, who is here a sister named Sheryl. Also some swearing and phonetic accents.  
Summary: Ten years after that disastrous fight with his brother, Stanford's comfortable life of monster hunts and super science is interrupted by a home invasion.  
Disclaimer: _Gravity Falls_ is the property of Alex Hirsch and Disney. This work of fiction is for transformative and entertainment purposes only.  
Notes: Nu Mystery Trio is go! Really, I had the basic outline of this before the end of the hiatus, and the details added after AtoTS just made it all the more emotional. This is the first real fanfic I've written and completed in years, and I'm super excited to share it with the fandom. I've felt so welcomed here even just as a bystander, and I'm thrilled to finally have something to contribute. Huge, enormous thanks to Jamie for her encouragement and help through the entire process and to Deani for her support of all my creative endeavors, even the ones based off of weird AUs of a kids' show. I hope you all enjoy it!

 **Breaking and Entering**

 **By Doktor Girlfriend**

"Stanford... _Psst,_ Stanford!"

"Huh?" Stanford jerked his head up from his open journal, so absorbed in his own writing that he hadn't noticed the doors of the elevator begin to slide closed in front of him. Jumping through just in time and adjusting his glasses, he saw his research assistant huddled against the wall just inside the stairwell leading up to the main house. Fiddleford's eyes were a bit wider than usual behind his glasses, his head and shoulders bobbing like a bird gearing up for a courting dance. Though that part was fairly usual. "What is it?"

" _Shhh..._ " Finger pressed firmly to his lips in the universal signal to shut up, Fiddleford beckoned Stanford to approach with his other hand, leaning well into his comfort zone once he did and hissing in his ear. " _There's someone in the house..._ "

"What?" Stanford took a step back, eyes darting from Fiddleford's face to the area just above his head. "Who's doing what?"

"Someone's upstairs," Fiddleford clarified in a louder whisper, glancing over his shoulder as he bounced on the balls of his feet. "I went up to get lunch, an' I saw someone come right through the front door."

"They did?" Ford stepped back in to lean around the shorter man and peer up the darkened stairway, tucking the journal into his coat. "That's not good..."

Fiddleford studied him dubiously. "Did you leave it unlocked again?"

"What? No. And that was one time."

"It was twice, Stanford."

"Well, I didn't do it _this_ time. They probably broke in."

Eyes narrowing at each other, the scientists nodded in unison and began to creep quietly up the stairs side-by-side, Fiddleford dragging his open palm against the wall and hovering the other by his colleague's shoulder. Ford knew they were thinking the same thing. They had no neighbors. This house sat as far back into the woods and away from town as possible - he'd made sure of that. It had been years since his last boxing match, longer still since his last win, and there were house cats that weighed more than Fiddleford. They were two vision-impaired, weedy young men, isolated and alone with an unknown intruder in the house. This could get very ugly, very fast.

Once they'd crossed the midway point of the stairs, Ford leaned in to whisper, "Did you get a good look at him?"

Fiddleford shook his head, messy hair tickling Ford's face. He'd had the same damn haircut since college. "Just a glimpse. Big fella, though."

Ford backed off again, scratching his cheek. "You think he's here to steal our research?"

Even in such serious circumstances, Fiddleford couldn't resist an eye roll and a quick jab to Stanford's ribs."Who even knows we're here, paranoid? Nah... From the look a' him, he's a drifter. Had some bags with him. Prob'ly lookin' for somethin' he can sell. Like our organs..."

"Now who's paranoid? It could still-"

A harsh, metallic rattle from somewhere deep in the house cut Ford off and stopped them both short as they reached the landing, Fiddleford gripping Stanford's bicep to steady them. Another synchronous glare and nod passed between them, and two mismatched hands reached out to ease the door to the main floor open just a crack. They held their breath, teeth digging into their bottom lips as they listened to the clanking of pans and the creaking of cabinets being opened. Ford felt McGucket start to vibrate in excitement, the tremors passing into his arm where Fiddleford still held it, his breath sucking in past his teeth distressingly loud in the silence of the stairwell.

"He's in the kitchen..."

"Okay..." Ford glanced sharply back down the stairs, suddenly faced with a problem almost as dire as the stranger in his home. He could practically smell the adrenaline pumping through the man beside him. "Okay. There's a phone in my study. I'm going to call the police."

"Good idea," Fiddleford agreed, but while his nod was firm and eager, his feet stepped forward when Stanford's stepped back, and Ford felt his stomach drop to somewhere near his bladder as a crooked grin pulled over perfect teeth. "I'm gonna get the bat."

"No. No, don't get the bat. Fiddleford, _wait_ -!" Ford snatched frantically at the empty air where Fiddleford's elbow had just been, a faint giggle floating back to him as the engineer bounded silently into the house on socked feet. When had he even taken off his shoes? " _McGucket, you hillbilly son of bitch-!_ "

Growling and cursing his luck that the only other person at Backupsmore with any brains had been the deranged bipedal squirrel now skipping off to his certain death, Ford threw a final, desperate stare back down to the elevator, calculating the likelihood of contacting the police before his partner got that brilliant little brain splattered all over the kitchen counter. The numbers were bleak to say the least, and with a sigh through gritted teeth, Ford toed off his shoes and slipped around the door to follow his foolhardy friend, grumbling under his breath the whole way.

"Should've requested a single dorm is what I should've done. Now I'm stuck with this backwoods maniac, gonna get us both killed. Can't even believe him - 'I'm gonna get the bat.' Why do we even _have_ a bat...?"

Padding as quickly and quietly as he could through the living room, Ford soon found the little lunatic in the foyer, flattened against the wall by the kitchen door, Louisville Slugger clutched in his twitchy fingers. He tiptoed across the creaking floorboards to join him, not seeing a point in doing otherwise. He could lecture and plead until his face turned blue, but there was no stopping McGucket once he got that manic gleam in his eye. Best to just go along with his harebrained scheme and try to minimize what damage he could.

He pressed himself to the wallpaper beside his partner in this newfound solidarity, promptly rewarded with the knob of the bat to his stomach and the raising of a bushy blond eyebrow.

"'Hillbilly son of a bitch'?"

Ford rubbed his offended flesh, giving McGucket a challenging grin in flagrant disregard for the severity of their situation. "I call 'em like I see 'em."

"I coulda sworn I told you that word was off-limits."

"You said 'redneck' was off-limits. 'Hillbilly' has been fair game ever since you spat on my-"

Fiddleford slapped a sweaty palm over Ford's mouth, and if he hadn't been certain they were about to die, he'd have given it the messiest lick imaginable. Instead, he listened intently to the sounds that had caught the engineer's attention: the shuffling of large feet over the wood floor; the crackle of the refrigerator being opened; the muffled, unintelligible muttering of a faint Jersey accent. The last fired up a niggling in the back of Stanford's brain, his eyebrows drawing closer together and his tongue flicking out to wet his lips and Fiddleford's hand. Something wasn't right. Beyond the obvious, of course. Something was very wrong...

It took him a second to notice when Fiddleford removed his hand, wiped it on his hip, and choked up on the bat, waggling his whole body in anticipation. "Get ready..."

Ford opened his mouth, perhaps to say "Ready for what?" or to caution McGucket to hold off just a second longer so he could pin down what was troubling him, but he never got the chance. The voice in the kitchen grew suddenly loud and unmistakable, sending his jaw snapping shut and flushing all possible thought from his head.

"Yeesh! House this big and this is all the food that's in it? People call _me_ criminal."

The color drained from Stanford's face, his chest seized in a vice-like panic that made his heartbeat painful and his voice come in terrified wheezes. "Oh, God... Oh, God..."

Fiddleford pressed his shoulder to Ford's in what he would later recognize as a reassuring gesture. "Don' worry, buddy. I've got 'im..."

"Oh, no, Fiddleford, _don't_ -!" The sleeve of Fiddleford's lab coat slipped through Stanford's fingers so fast it left fabric burns. The door made a bone-rattling slam against the wall as McGucket barreled into the kitchen with a rebel yell Ford hadn't heard since spring break '72, almost loud enough to drown out the ensuing avalanche of cookware and a single, horrified shout.

"Sweet fancy _Moses_!"

"No, no, no, no!" Ford crashed through the door as it swung back in, eyes shut firmly against what he feared he might see and what he knew for certain he would, arms waving wildly in denial. "Everybody, _FREEZE_!"

When the two longest seconds of silence in his life told him he'd been miraculously obeyed, only then did Stanford open his eyes, slowly dropping his arms to reveal the scene before him. Fiddleford was on the kitchen table, legs set wide in an attack stance and bat swung forward in an overhand strike. The intruder was flattened back against the refrigerator with his foot stuck in a saucepan, the rest of the fallen utensils scattered around his ankles. One large hand kept the bat at bay from its intended target of his skull while the other clutched one of the sack lunches Fiddleford had brought with him that morning.

He was indeed a "big fella," as Fiddleford had observed, no taller than Stanford but much broader up top, certainly stronger, if a bit soft in the middle. His clothes and countenance bore the rakish, unkempt look of the well-traveled, almost charmingly dirty, with an unshaven jaw and hair in desperate need of a cut. (Was Stanford the only one who'd grown tired of mullets after high school?)

But even dirtier, hairier, and with far less acne than last he'd seen, it was a face Stanford could never forget; he saw it every morning over the bathroom sink before he put on his glasses. The intruder stared straight at the scientist, and Stanford was powerless to resist their gazes meeting, perfectly mirrored pairs of brown eyes locking in speechless recognition.

Or almost speechless. "Holy shit..." the drifter offered after a moment, eyes flicking unblinkingly between Ford and the hillbilly berserker on the table. "Ho-lee shit..."

Fortunately, Fiddleford's fight instinct had been momentarily overcome by intellectual curiosity. His keen blue eyes perused the intruder's face with rapt interest, head quirked to one side before turning back to catch his employer's attention. "Well, he looks just like you, Stanford."

Ford gripped the doorjamb for support, shoulders sagging as the weight of a decade's worth of avoided confrontations finally caught up to settle on them. His eyelids drooped with sudden exhaustion, but he kept them open and his gaze fixed resolutely on the man pressed to the fridge like a magnet.

"That's because he's my brother. Stanley Pines."

Fiddleford, Stanford should have anticipated, had absolutely no respect for the drama of the moment.

"Oh, this is Stanley?" The engineer whipped his head forward to grin at Stanford's twin like Christmas had come half a year early, bat still clutched in both hands. "Well, my, my, don't I have egg on my face?"

Pressing further back, clearly not as bursting to meet Fiddleford as the reverse, Stanley dragged his bewildered gaze back to his twin and gave him a grin no doubt far more sheepish than the one he'd rehearsed on the way there. "Hey, bro... Who's your twitchy friend?"

"Hello, Stanley..." The corner of Ford's mouth ticced upward, but he refused to smile, just as he refused to acknowledge Fiddleford's eager little tap dance as he waited to be introduced. "This is my, uh... research assistant-"

"Fiddleford Hadron McGucket." Fiddleford removed his right hand from the bat and stuck it out toward Stanley. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise...?" Stanley offered McGucket a wary smile, not trusting him enough to release his defensive grip on the bat just yet. "That's some name you've got, Fiddl- Oh..." He lifted the brown paper bag still clenched in his other fist, taking note of the letters "F.M." written on it in thick black marker. "Guess this is you, huh?" Tossing the bag on the table, he freed up his hand to accept the one Fiddleford had extended. "I was only gonna eat some of it."

"Ain't no nevermind." McGucket shook his hand with surprising strength and enthusiasm if the look on Stanley's face was anything to go by. "I was gonna split your head wide open."

"Heh!" Stanley looked back to his brother with a wider, approving grin. "I like this guy."

"Of course you do..." Stanford watched them like a daytime drama, helpless and bemused and desperately trying to follow the convoluted plot lines that had led to this moment. "Stanley... What exactly are you doing he-?"

"You're a lot scrappier than the guys my brother ran with back home." Eyes back on McGucket, Stanley cheerfully ignored his twin, releasing the bat as he stepped away from the table and the fridge, shaking his foot free of the saucepan. "Where'd he dig you up?"

Fiddleford finally lowered the bat to his side, positively beaming at the attention. "My garage."

"We were roommates through college," Stanford broke in to grab that attention back. "Stanley, seriously, how did you-?"

"An educated little spitfire, eh?" Chin cradled in his thumb and forefinger, Stanley gave the engineer a shrewd once-over, nodding to himself. "Hmm... Not much to ya, but I bet you're wiry."

"Oh, sure 'nuff."

"Yeah? All right, tough guy, show me watch ya got. Go on, try and hit me as hard as ya can."

"Do _not_!" Stanford launched himself from the doorway, open hand thrust out like a traffic cop, eyes goggling in disbelief at the fist McGucket had pulled back and ready. "Fiddleford, were you going to punch my brother in the _face_?"

Fiddleford swiveled his gaze between Ford's face and his own arm with a perturbed little frown, his confusion at the question entirely too earnest. "It'd've been rude not to, Stanford."

"Yeah, Ford, I think you're losin' your manners holed up out here in the woods." Stanley shook his head, arms crossed and lips pursed in mock disappointment. "Interruptin' me when I'm talking to Fiddlesticks, here..."

McGucket squeaked out a startled laugh, fingers twiddling in delight. "Fiddlesticks?"

Ford barely restrained himself from stomping his foot, hands balling up in familiar frustration. Only Stan could ever infuriate him like this. " _I_ don't have manners? You broke into my house, Stanley!"

"Broke in, nothin'! The door wasn't even locked!"

" _A-ha_!" Fiddleford whirled on his fellow researcher, thrusting the bat out in accusation just short of Stanford's nose. "I _knew_ you-! Gosh, I almost hit you right in the face, I'm sorry, Stanford."

"Give me that!" Grabbing the barrel of the bat, Stanford tore it from Fiddleford's grip, ignoring his indignant squawk as he tossed it aside to rattle and roll across the kitchen floor. His hands curled in on themselves again, this time to keep from shaking, and he took a few steadying breaths before daring to look at the other two men. He couldn't let Stanley disorient him, and he couldn't let Fiddleford see him like this for too long. He had to get control of the situation.

"You two," he said as he lifted his head, voice clipped and deceptively calm, "stop being yourselves for five minutes, and Stanley..." He straightened his back to match his twin in height and fixed him with a stern, unblinking glare. "Quit stalling and tell me just what the hell you're doing here and how you even knew how to find me."

"Ah, don't act so surprised, Ford. Your sly ol' bro's got connections!" Stanley set his hands on his hips and flashed a cocky grin, but a good look at his brother's face sucked the wind right out of his sails. "It was Ma," he confessed, an almost apologetic slump to his shoulders. "Ma told me you were up here."

"Oh..." Of all the possible answers Stanley could have given, that simple, straightforward truth was the last thing Ford had expected. All his prepared accusations suddenly useless, he floundered for his words, glancing away just long enough to break the power of his glare. "You... You're still in touch with Mom...?"

"Yeah... Off and on..." Stan scratched at his neck, and it was some small comfort that he looked as awkward as Ford felt. "She worries, y'know...?"

"Y-Yeah... Of course..." Of _course_. Deception came as naturally to their mother as breathing; she and Stan were peas in a pod in that regard. Of course she'd have stayed in clandestine contact with her little free spirit. Now he knew why she'd suddenly stopped mentioning Stan after Ford's graduation, why she'd stopped asking Dad to reconsider his punishment. It was so _obvious_. Why hadn't he _seen_ it?

His newly percolating frustration chilled as he looked again at Stanley and the mortified grimace creasing his face. With a twinge of guilt, Ford remembered that their mother had stopped crying herself to sleep at night after his graduation, too.

"So, you asked her-? Um... She told you about all this...?" Six fingers gestured vaguely at their surroundings, and something Ford didn't want to identify squirmed in his chest at the thought that Stan might have asked about him.

"You know Ma when she gets goin'." Stan expertly avoided Ford's gaze, giving a quick, dismissive turn of his wrist. "Always has to give the full report. Shermy's got a new girlfriend, Sheryl's takin' tap lessons, Dad's... the same... And Ford's off nerdin' it up in Who-Cares, Oregon. Can't pay her to shut up."

"Haha! Yeah..." Ford's laugh sounded a bit too loud and much too nervous to his own ears, and he was uncomfortably aware of Fiddleford - still standing on the damn table and unabashedly watching the twins' conversation the same way he ate up those soap operas that confounded Ford. He felt like that sweaty-palmed, punch-stained wallflower again, unsure and on the spot and tripping over his own tongue.

"Well, I'm glad that... I-I mean, it's good... you... but... Stanley, _why_ did you come?"

Stan straightened from his awkward stance immediately, giving Ford a look like he'd just asked why Sunday came after Saturday. "Y'know, for someone with such a high IQ, you're not all that smart. I'm here to help, ya dingus!"

"You're _what_?"

"You _are_?" Fiddleford lifted onto his toes in unbridled glee, and Ford distantly feared he'd launch whole hog into some Appalachian mating display.

"I told ya Ma was worried, yeah? She's worried about _you_ , genius. She was all wringin' her hands over you runnin' off to live in the woods and chase the boogeyman, never callin', only got your skinny friend for company. Thinks you're gonna get eaten by a grizzly bear or Bigfoot or whatever. I had to promise I'd come keep an eye on ya just to get her to calm down."

Ford's stared slack-jawed at his brother, the only thing he could think to say in his immeasurable disbelief: "There... There aren't any grizzly bears in-"

"And from the looks of it, I came just in time." Stan made a sweeping gesture at the kitchen, sneering his disapproval. "Look at this place. No food. Crud all over the counters. Door unlocked. And your first line of defense is this scrawny bastard." He stuck his thumb out at McGucket and gave him a conciliatory glance. "No offense, Fiddlenerd, but I wouldn't bet on your Mickey Mantle routine bein' as effective without the element of surprise."

"None taken," Fiddleford chirped, irrepressibly cheerful. "In retrospect, if you'd been armed, we'd prob'ly be dead."

"Damn right you would. But now you've got me! So you two can have your little study group while I deal with the prowlers, get the food, maybe make the house fit for people... Wrestle a goat-man, or whatever it is you're lookin' for up here..."

"Funny enough! We have encountered signs of a bipedal, cloven-hooved creature near the gas station. We found these footprints, an'... Oh, Stanford, get the field notes, he has to see- Stanford, are you okay?"

"Stanley..." Stanford swallowed against something in his throat – a lump or maybe breakfast, he wasn't sure – and hoped he didn't look as pale or sweaty as he felt. "That's a... generous offer... And I'm sure Mom appreciates the trouble you went to. But Fiddleford and I have everything under control here."

"Aw, I don' know, Stanford." Fiddleford knocked a fork off the table as shuffled around to face him. "An extra set a' hands couldn' hurt. Ain't neither you or me much use at the heavy liftin', an' that's really gonna come in handy when we get t' workin' on the..." His eyes darted to Stanley before his voice lowered to a conspiratory whisper. "On the _you-know-what_."

"Fiddleford, _ix-nay_!" Stanford's hand slashed hastily across his throat, though he couldn't really deny the truth of McGucket's assessment. Even Stan's food remark was a fair point. Ford barely remembered to eat most days, and Fiddleford could sustain himself on sunflower seeds and Milk Duds for a couple of weeks before his body shut down.

"Be that as it may..." he conceded, straightening his glasses as he frowned at his brother. "You must understand, Stanley, we're doing very delicate work here. Very _dangerous_ work. The fewer people we drag into it, the better."

"You're not draggin', I'm askin'!" With that stubborn set to his jaw, Stan looked so much like their father. But Ford knew better than to mention that. "Come on, Ford, you know me. Danger's my middle name! Whatever you've got goin' on here, I can handle it."

"Stanley, I-"

"At least hear me out. Hey, I'm pretty hungry, yeah? What say I take you two nerds to lunch? That diner I saw on the way up here any good?"

"Real good!" Fiddleford broke in eagerly. His stomach had gotten them into this mess in the first place. "Sometimes you get free pie if you flirt with the waitress."

"Hey, free stuff and pie? I'm sold. C'mon, my car's out front."

Stanford held up both hands before either Stan or Fiddleford could move. "We don't need to go to the diner, Stan. Fiddleford already brought us lunch."

"It's jus' some egg salad. An' two days old." There was a sheepish curl to Fiddleford's grin as he scuffed his socks on the tabletop. "It was all we had ready in the fridge, eh heh..."

"Ugh!" Stanley gave an exaggerated shudder. "Egg salad is a crime against food, and I won't allow either of you to sully yourselves like that. Can't believe I almost ate it. We can do better."

Fiddleford swiveled his upper body to face Stan again, hands clasped behind his back almost coyly. "I sure could go for a reuben..."

"That's the spirit. Stanford, you still like meatball subs or-?"

"Stanley, stop it!" It came out louder, harsher than Ford had intended, but he forged on, trying not to notice the way Stan flinched back from him and Fiddleford's grin drooped in concern. "Just stop it. No reubens, no subs, no nothing. We're not... Stanley, you can't possibly think..."

"It's just lunch, Ford..." Ford had expected defensiveness, had wanted anger and aggression, maybe a finger jabbed into his chest for good measure. But Stan gave him only softness, his smile weak and his voice carrying a faint, pleading waver as he turned open palms to his brother. "It's just talkin'. It can't hurt anything, right...?"

The honesty in Stanley's eyes was far too raw, and Stanford had to look away from them, jaw set and cheeks burning. The last time he'd seen his brother look so vulnerable, he'd been staring up at their shared bedroom of seventeen years from the sidewalk, confused and scared, hand held up to the window beseechingly.

Ford had turned away then, too.

This time he looked back, and Stan, a hint of hope edging into his grin, went right for the throat.

"Come on, Sixer. What d'ya say?"

And that was it. Ford felt everything buckle - his knees, his defenses, his resolve - everything crumbling at the sound of that name, doubled over by the realization that Stan still trusted him, still loved him, even after he'd left him hanging for ten years. He met his twin's wide, waiting eyes, all his carefully tended bitterness withering away to regret, and knew he wouldn't tell him no. He couldn't.

Not again.

"Well... Their meatball subs _are_ pretty good..."

"Yeah...?" Stan's face lit up like the Fourth of July, and without warning he caught Ford around his shoulders and crushed him to his side, his laughter filling up the dingy little room. "Yeah! That's what I'm talkin' about! This guy! This is the guy! My number one!"

"Stan! Stan, I can't breathe!" But Stan's joy was infectious, and Ford wheezed through his own laughter. From the corner of his eye he could see Fiddleford, his grin visible even with both sets of knuckles pressed to his mouth.

"You're not gonna regret this, Ford," Stan was saying, cheek rubbing against his brother's hair. "You'll see, it's gonna be just like old times. You and me! The Pines boys! ...And this nerd!" He slung his other arm around Fiddleford's waist and dragged him to the edge of the table, drawing another surprised giggle from the engineer. "This town won't know what hit it!"

"Now, Stan..." Ford tried to unearth his face from where it was buried in his twin's collarbone, his attempts as feeble as his words. "I've only agreed to talk about this..."

Just as he thought, the grin on Stan's face proved Ford had no power left in the conversation. "Details, brother, details. Now let's get this show on the road! Don't know about you ladies, but I'm starvin'!"

Stanley Pines didn't say another word or wait for one, slapping them both on the hip as he let them go and strode out of the kitchen and the house with his head held high.

Fiddleford turned his grin on Stanford again as soon as they heard the front door close, a look of gleeful anticipation on his face like that time they'd found a stray kitten huddled in the gutter by the student union.

"Let's keep 'im!"

Ford sighed. Fiddleford had said the same thing about the kitten.

"It's not that simple, Fidds. My brother and I are very different people. And we left things on such... bad terms..."

"Aw, but you were just kids then." McGucket stuck his hands on his narrow hips, taking on the sterner bearing he saved for whenever he felt Ford was being, in his words, "right muleheaded." "You can't be holdin' on t' those playground grudges, Stanford Pines. You're a better man than that."

Stanford cast an almost bashful glance to the floor, an odd twisting of glee and guilt in his stomach knowing Fiddledford actually believed that. The last several minutes hadn't left him feeling nearly so confident in himself.

"It isn't just that one fight. It's not just the science fair or scholarships or the Stan o' War. You don't understand, Fidds, we really..."

Ford bit down hard on the inside of his lip as memories he'd kept locked up tight for years came leaking through the cracks: the burn of ozone in his nose from their old TV and the flickering shadows they cast in its glow; the solid warmth of Stan's chest under his hands as he shoved him away; the looming hulk of their father, his face crimson with rage; their mother's sleepy eyes and Sheryl's shrill wailing in the darkened doorway; the squeal of rubber and asphalt as Stan drove away without money, without dinner, and out of Stanford's life.

"I think... I really screwed up..."

"Then you at least have t' try an' fix it. Just give 'im a chance, Ford." Fiddleford's chiding posture relaxed into something much gentler as he leaned toward his friend, his grin returning along with a teasing, singsong lilt to his voice. "I know you want to..."

Ford heaved a long-suffering sigh through his nose, looking back at his partner with a resigned pout. Fiddleford had always had his number. Despite Stanford's protests (and subsequently discovered allergy), they'd kept that kitten in their dorm room the rest of the semester before sending it home with Fiddleford's girlfriend over the winter break. Now its name was Jebediah Peanut, and it was fat, happy, and climbed all over Ford every time he came over for dinner.

Clearly the same fate awaited Stanley if Fiddleford had his way.

"Fidds..." Stanford began but was once again interrupted by Stanley's booming, disembodied voice, this time accompanied by the staccato rhythm of a car horn.

"Time's a-wastin, nerds! Get your narrow asses in this vehicle!"

"You heard the man." Fiddleford met Stanford's baffled gaze with a wink and finally hopped off the table, giving a breezy cry of "Shotgun!" as he bounced past him out of the kitchen. His footsteps faded out as he hustled back through the living room them grew louder and offbeat as he returned, hopping from one foot to the other as he pulled on his shoes and all but fell out the front door, hooting with joy. "Hot damn! That's your car?"

Left alone in the kitchen, Stanford lingered, all twelve fingers twitching against each other. His head rotated side-to-side like an indecisive owl, trying to find something he could justifiably busy himself with and delay his joining the others in the car. Eventually, the thought of Stanley's impatient and worried eyes on the front door jerked him into motion, and he dragged his feet back to the basement door to retrieve his own shoes, accompanied by his doubts.

This was a bad idea. Absolutely, it was. He and Stan were just too different, and it had been far too long. Their bad blood had been simmering for ten years now; even if they managed to make amends for the time being, it would certainly boil over again somewhere down the line. And this time they'd catch bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Fiddleford right in the middle of it. It could only end in disaster.

Still, Ford grudgingly admitted to himself as he slowly and methodically toed on his shoes, even under the circumstances and under all the shock, awkwardness, and anger, it had been good to see his brother again. It had warmed his analytical heart to see Stan's smile, hear his laugh, feel his arm around him, even to watch him get along with McGucket. Despite everything that had happened between them, all they'd left said and unsaid, he'd missed Stanley.

And with that confession, more memories flooded to the forefront of his mind, ones kept under the closest guard: breathless explorations of the beach from sunup to sundown; sand between his toes and splinters under his nails; peach-flavored soda beneath the blistering summer sun; identical shirts and fake glasses to avoid or share the punishment; a hand holding his, unafraid of its strangeness, and someone by his side, no matter where he went. Kings of New Jersey.

"Kings of New Jersey..." Stanford murmured to the empty house and shoved his heel firmly down onto the worn insole of his boot.

Kicking the basement door closed behind him, Ford tripled his pace back to the front of the house. Stanley would be getting antsy by now, and Fiddleford, no doubt pleading to be allowed to play his mixed tape, wouldn't be helping the situation. The mental image wrung a snort of laughter through Stanford's nose, and he couldn't shake the grin before stepping outside, where the El Diablo had started a slow, warning roll towards the road into town. He double-checked that the door was locked and spared a fleeting thought that maybe this wasn't the worst idea in the world before leaping from the front porch.

"Hey, hey, wait! Stan, wait up!"

Ford flung himself into the backseat just as the first notes of "Go All the Way" began to pump through the speakers, his eyes meeting Stan's for a split second through the rearview mirror before he dropped his head back and kicked both seats in front of him.

"Live it up, Fidds. I've got shotgun on the way back."


End file.
